Fickle minded love
by csfcsf
Summary: Just a small piece on a Sherlock and John falling in love with each other, with the possibility of adding more. Don't really know where it came from, and there's no real goal to this. Just playing with the characters, I guess.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Haven't a clue where this one came from. I'll leave it here, and tiptoe my way out. Cheers. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock Holmes didn't know Love. Therefore, it was preposterous to presuppose that he could find himself in love. Ever.

Love was a convenient emotion for the fickle-minded, youthful fools, a convenient motive for crimes of passion and a unilateral expediting method to forging a connection for con artists. Love was the summit of all that was wrong with the world. It caused criminal mayhem and state revolutions, numbed into complacency the most intelligent minds of the century, and – perhaps worse of all – love was the sickening basis of the greater part of all creative artwork, inherent into the spirit of the law (and tax collection), and—

'Sherlock, I'm home!'

John's abrupt call out came muffled from Baker Street's stairwell, as the doctor's footsteps were clearly audible, plain as day. Sherlock wasn't about to give his returned flatmate the satisfaction of knowing his forewarning had actually come in handy, given that he had caught Sherlock in a fit of bored abstraction that was possibly pointless. For Sherlock was sure he didn't need to mull it over. Like he had told John himself, he didn't feel the need for Love, the downfall of the rest of humanity.

The detective would be forced to admit to be off his game only moments later, when John walked in to 221B in a state that should have been merited with a quick pre-deduction.

'John, what happened?'

The unfortunate doctor smiled bravely. To say that he was drenched wet was in no way an understatement. Water dripped from the spiky strands of dirty blond hair that sagged under the liquid's weight, rolling down across John's nearly imperceptibly freckled cheeks and down the nave of his neck through the gentle and proud curve of the pale skin, over to the strained and strong shoulders – John often felt he carried the world in them, sometimes Sherlock agreed he really did – down to the soaked through black canvas jacket with the asymmetric shoulder patch.

'A car, speeding up the street. Definitely doing more than 20 miles per hour in this area. There was this big puddle of stagnated rainwater because it's been raining so much that the draining sewage was overflowing and— I'm sure you don't really want to hear this, Sherlock. Why don't I just go and have a hot shower? It's been a long day at the surgery and the underground was jam-packed.'

Sherlock blinked, and in that duration of time he allowed himself the contemplation of a rarity. The stoic soldier wasn't in the habit of complaining about his day. He was efficient in his though process, in that regard alone. Usually he'd arrive at Baker Street and push away the crying children, the demented elderly and the terminal patients he had overly worried about in the surgery, abandoning them in benefit of a more attainable task in hand; he'd worry about Sherlock – had he eaten, had he rested, had he managed to keep from poisoning or electrocuting himself for another day?

Settling for texting Mycroft to have the reckless driver of the car being stopped and questioned by the secret services on account of his excess speeding, Sherlock nodded, unsure, as the doctor dumped a wet shoulder bag and jacket on the floor by the living room door. He'd do a beeline straight to the small bathroom off the kitchen without so much as another word, let alone carrying on his routine of a welcome-home-John cup of tea.

The detective couldn't help but to miss the fragrant warm scent of bergamot of the weekday's earl gray tea pot.

John shut the door behind him, and with a couple more steps the potent jet of shower water filled the small division and leaked through the frail wooden door onto the corridor and living room. Disguised by the continuous pounding of water over the shower cabin, John allowed himself a small groan – a small acceptance of defeat and pain, and sorrow alike, that Sherlock was never meant to discern. He must have been parting the gelid wet jumper from his shattered left shoulder, a souvenir from his time in a war abroad. Sherlock could have berated the soldier for both believing he could deceive Sherlock's ears with a stronger sound of pouring water (Sherlock was a musician, after all, used to discern the smallest nuances of sound and melody) and for not allowing his friend to help him part with his drenched, unhealthy clothes in a futile exercise of prudery.

As John's body multiplied the streamed sound of gushing water, as he interposed himself in its way with a small relieved sigh of contentment, Sherlock was left in his leather and metal armchair to ponder the small soldier that had become such a decisive part of his life.

How had he missed John's entrance through the front door, downstairs?

An intrusive thought permeated Sherlock's obliviousness. _He had known John was entering the building, on a subconscious level._ It was plain as day. As often, John's proximity changed the detective's thoughts. The homely sound of John's weary footsteps – slightly favouring his left leg, even though all signs of his previous limp were gone the habit remained ingrained in the military discipline of the doctor, just like his tidiness, his punctuality and his trigger-happy finger – had been one of many key signs that declared Sherlock's roaming mind a fit territory for the topic of Love to worm itself in.

Of course Sherlock loved John; he was like a brother to Sherlock. Like a proper brother, not in the least like his real brother Mycroft. No, Sherlock didn't feel for John as he felt for Mycroft, so maybe a different type of love was warranted to define what was going on inside Sherlock. As he sensed John's proximity, his heart-rate went up, butterflies fluttered in his stomach, and a soft smile blossomed in the cold sociopath's lips.

So, obviously, John's importance in Sherlock's life was more than just a brotherly sort of love.

The unflappable sidekick's importance at the crime scenes, keeping a cool head and a devious smirk when Sherlock double-crossed the Yard and forced the two of them into trouble, solving the crime on their own, was also a matter not to be disregarded.

A dangerous sort of attraction filled the air with a magnetic static energy between them, as they chased criminals and solved crimes, saving lives on the process.

Every once in a while, the adrenaline-high soldier would stare at Sherlock from some dirty alley corner as he caught his breath after a midnight rooftop chase across London, and his eyes were darkened and bright, as if lusted for that thirst of life that Sherlock could elicit out of him on cue. Sherlock would usually part his eyes from their engaged staring first. _Too much._ John's uneven, gasping breaths and the musky warm smell of his perspiration were oddly tantalising, confusing the genius.

John would usually blush and look down, at that point. With a conscious effort he'd control his breathing and heart rate, as he coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat into the night.

Once that small sound actually got the killer they were chasing to double-back and attack them.

John shot his faithful browning straight through the serial killer's heart as he was about to jump on Sherlock. There was almost an animalistic, feral protection personified in the usually mild-mannered doctor that revealed the inner soldier.

Maybe it was just residual love, born out of a shared attraction to danger.

That hardly explained all the times John would care for Sherlock, though. Generous, without possibly seriously expecting retribution, John gave all his free time to Sherlock. He cooked them dinner, he got the groceries more often than Sherlock bothered to have them delivered through an online service, looked after Sherlock when he was poorly with a bad migraine after too long exposure to smelly chemicals.

Sometimes, John's love for Sherlock was a sort of devotion.

And the lucky detective guardedly felt the same for John Watson.

 _Damn it._ Sherlock was in love. A quiet, pondered love that the silly doctor had germinated in Sherlock's fickle mind.

There was no more going back.

'Sherlock! I forgot my towel! Could you possibly get me a towel?' the strained call came from the bathroom, now the shower water had stopped running.

Five minutes longer than John's customary frugal showering time. John's shoulder had needed some soothing, then, in order to loosen the stiff joints that life had mistreated before the detective had even the chance to meet the soldier.

 _Towel_. Sherlock could get John a towel. Of course he could. It was a simple task to be carried out by one of the most brilliant minds in the century. Then why were Sherlock's hands trembling in anticipation? Why was there a blush creeping to his face, a secret hope to see John without all those disgraceful – _too many_ – layers of clothes that John favoured?

Too many; because London wasn't generally that cold, as a recently returned soldier from warmer climates might perceive it.

Sherlock definitely meant that.

Of course he had.

John was his flatmate, his blogger, his personal assistant.

John was his—

John was _his_.

Sherlock had to force himself to dislodge from where he stood rooted, from that armchair that had supported him well as he pondered fickle minded love.

'Coming!' he answered in as he got up. He hurried to his own room, gathering an Egyptian cotton bath towel from his closet and, not bothering to return through the corridor, he used the bedroom door to the small bathroom.

John was standing by the mirror over the sink, staring at his bleary reflex on the foggy surface. He started as Sherlock came in and immediately enveloped his smaller frame in the oversized towel.

John snuggled in the soft cotton for a moment, before acknowledging, awkwardly: 'Silly me, I forgot a towel or clean clothes. Just wanted to warm up before I got hypothermia from those wet clothes, sorry. You could have got me one of my towels from my room, Sherlock, but I suppose yours was nearer.'

Sherlock cursed himself for having chosen that particular towel. Midnight blue. John's eyes were accentuated by the rich, deep colour of the fabric. His hair was still spiky, this time from the hot water that dripped and rolled down the side of his neck towards his clavicle. Sherlock caught the errant water droplet before he could help himself, like a feline mesmerised by the movement. John's eyes narrowed as he shuddered deeply. Sherlock's fingers lingered above John's warm, scented skin for a second longer. _It was madness._ There was no meaning, they were _family_ , they were _danger_ , they were _home_ to one another. Why should Sherlock's treacherous body react to John's proximity? How could John surprise him again and again? John was the fly in the ointment, the emotion that disturbed reason, the mystery that was never solved. John was the depths of unexplored oceans that dwindled in his irises, and that Sherlock wanted to solve. John was...

Close. Very close.

Sherlock shut his eyes, forsaking the one unsolved mystery he truly cared for. He didn't want to see the end of this case. The case of the intoxicating soldier.

He tasted the delicate intricacies of John's taste, he sensed the accelerating heartbeats and cursed the time that flowed beyond their conscious recognition. Sherlock would stay like this forever, kissing John, holding the doctor and soldier in his arms to keep him warm, giving as good as he got. Sherlock could feel the gentle smile that John eased into their kiss, so natural, so easy.

John was the exception to the cold-reasoning detective. And, at times like this, Sherlock didn't mind a little exception.

 _ **.**_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I decided to add some more. If not by any other reason, just because the way I got told of was delightfully played and put a grin on my face after a long, strenuous day. (Thanks.)_

 _I wrote the one before like a slow revelation because of John and Sherlock's long history together. And I think there's a down to earth quality to John that would be the door to accepting the change. It was Sherlock, though, who would have to rationalise before having an epiphany._

 _Still not British, a writer, or even a romantic; so this is probably terrible, beware. I've been playing with it all week, so I guessed it was time to let go._

 _Lastly in this long A/N, I should mention I don't own the characters (and I apologise for borrowing them), and I don't make any profit. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock had assumed _it_ to be all consuming, fast burning, blindingly bright, exceptionally timed; that first kiss he had shared with John. A not so rational inner part of his mind expected the Earth to stand still, all the birds to take off from land and the rivers to flow in reverse. Cataclysms, natural disasters would only be a small part of the evidence to the world that Sherlock Holmes had admitted his love and acted upon it. And John? Oh, poor John had little say on the matter. Swept off his feet, he'd loyally follow Sherlock to the depths of their shared madness, like he did everywhere else.

Sherlock was only half wrong. It turned out that John Watson was an astute man with a set mind and unwavering love for the mad detective. John had a sort of constant love that settled Sherlock's hyperactive nerve endings. Perhaps he was more seasoned, perhaps he had seen it coming for longer. John had always displayed some flustered cheeks, heart acceleration and bright fond eyes for Sherlock. But the ascetic detective had been married to his work, and John, confused with his own emotions, had backed off at once.

He had built a close friendship instead, and never regretted it.

Sherlock was finding himself desperate to sweep John off his feet, to give him the world, to explore uncharted territories. Sherlock was hot in pursuit, desperate in the contact, lost in a sea of emotions he had never quite felt before.

Sherlock was like that; all about the grandiose and the big gestures. John was patiently steering his young love through the turmoils of both their feelings, minding the small details, steadying their course.

And, slowly, Sherlock dared to believe that together they could actually achieve some degree of proficient domestic bliss. That it could last. That he hadn't just imploded their great companionship for a simple minded kiss.

 _ **.**_

So while John got dressed after showering - how pedestrian; John's need to be civilised and put clothes on to disguise his lovely frame - Sherlock was suddenly left in a cold cluttered kitchen, trying to make a proper job of a cup of tea for John. A peace offering. _He was sorry for jumping on John like that, he could see not enough words had been exchanged, those words that John enjoyed so much, when John overanalysed the simple things in the world._

The cold of the flat reminding Sherlock of how alone he suddenly was, and he genuinely worried John was right then having the meltdown of his life, some sort of confidence crisis, over what had just happened.

Worst of all, instead of being outraged for John's indecisiveness inside Sherlock's mind, the detective was regretful. He'd gladly put it all back to the incomplete way it was before, if that was the ticket to John's happiness.

 _Sherlock would give up his own happiness for John's._

He had done it before, when he had forsaken Baker Street to fight Moriarty's criminal web. John still hadn't forgiven Sherlock for, essentially, saving their lives.

Whatever Sherlock did _for John_ , it always turned out to be the wrong thing.

Not even the warm fragrance of bergamot in the tea could quite appease Sherlock's growing anxiety.

Perhaps he was _off his game_.

Deep inside, he knew this would happen.

Sherlock Holmes knew love would make him less of the great detective he had set out to be. _He just knew John was worth it._

The lean detective pressed the side of his outstretched finger to the side of the popping hot metal kettle, in a morbid, unhealthy need to feel the heat burning him, grounding him in the actual moment. He didn't want to leave that moment. In that time, John was his, he was committed to Sherlock, _there was yet no evidence against it_ , John had not yet rebelled, implied sherlock was a freak for kissing him (conveniently forgetting John had kissed him back).

Sherlock wanted to feel every fleeting instant go by, grab hold of them, making them stretch to near infinity. Sherlock wanted to adjourn the probable - _no, inevitable_ \- rejection, the obvious inadequacy, the tortuous loss that was about to come.

221B growing colder by the second, in comparison to the scorching kettle.

It was only rational that John was, right then, catching up with the fact that he had buckled over a sociopath (however high-functioning Sherlock may be). Being John Watson, he might try to be nice about his rejection.

Sherlock secretly decided he'd never accept that rejection. John was well worth fighting for.

'Sherlock, are you there?'

John's innocent question immediately lifted the weight off Sherlock's chest, like a magic trigger. Sherlock relaxed at once to the sound of John's casual voice, and removed his finger, the skin only a bit red and sore. _Damn kettle, not even a real and dangerous weapon._

Sherlock supposed tea making was really meant to include boiling the kettle water, and not just warming it up to sufficient temperature for palatability.

'Tea?' John realised as he approached the kitchen. The same laconic question he himself had used so often to volunteer comfort to the detective. His honest expression morphed to a delighted grin that stunned Sherlock's over-working mind; it'd never be "just tea" anymore, as far as Sherlock was concerned. His blogger being so engaged by something so simple.

John stood by his side, almost at parade's rest, and smirking he pondered: 'I may need to kiss you more often, Sherlock, for a cuppa alone, if nothing else.'

Sherlock smirked deviously, all control restored. Bickering was something homely he could engage in his pursuit of normalcy. 'You didn't kiss me, I kissed you, John! Do be precise.'

'Well, I let you do it.' John softened his stance minutely.

'Hardly relevant to this discussion. I initiated it.'

'That's right', John admitted, grinding them to a halt. 'I never dared.'

Sherlock's eyebrows descended upon that at once. 'John?' The brave soldier, scared of a battle, was unheard of.

'You never let me believe there could be something else. I didn't want to ruin what was already there.' John's honest blue eyes shone with a deeper colour today, Sherlock noticed. Flecks of sandy beige and dark midnight also trembled in his irises. Sherlock committed that sight to his eidetic memory with care.

'I thought you were going to bring up your multiple girlfriends', the detective noted, in a flat tone.

John smiled sadly. 'Even they would end up comparing themselves with you and declaring you the winner. Remember, you git?'

'Not Mary.' Sherlock brought his own hell onto the open. Enough with fearing the worse. Every second that passed since everything had changed abruptly - and two hundred and forty seven seconds had passed, not including the blurred memory seconds during their kiss, when time fused together and became uncountable - took Sherlock higher from the ground, and the fear of losing and crashing down the more frightening prospect. Immediately Sherlock regretted precipitating what would follow. Perhaps there'd been some poetic beauty in the suspension of free-fall, after all.

'No', John stated calmly. 'Not Mary.' His eyes clouded, losing their sparkle at that point. For Sherlock, they looked dead on the inside, as if a part of John had become unreachable, tortured by that loss.

Sherlock knew Mary had been special; for the both of them, in different ways.

He also knew she'd have been on their side. _"The two people in this world who love John the most"._ Even Mary had appropriated Sherlock's tacky line, fully knowing something stronger lay asleep under the detective's many complex layers of self-restraint.

That both of them only had cared for John's happiness and both had given up being the only ones to ensure that.

 _Mary would have been okay with them._ Mary would have been relieved John could chose someone who knew him so well. That John could be revered and cared for so deeply as Sherlock planned to do, in his own imperfect way.

John cleared his throat.

'I miss her too, Sherlock. And Rosie hardly remembers her. I'm not sure if it's a blessing or a curse not to remember someone you lost.' The stoic solder lost his footing for an instant and looked away.

Things were going south too fast, and Sherlock dry swallowed. He had messed up. _Not sure how._ He could feel John's presence washing away in front of him.

'Rosie's got you, John. She still has you. She'll always have her father.' _You are alive, John, so very alive._

John smiled bravely and flickered his gaze shyly to the observant detective. 'She's got you as well. Best godfather in the world.'

'Better than the movies?' was Sherlock's comeback. His heart leaped of joy when John got flicked out of his stoicism by the surprise.

'You know about the movies? You actually know a mainstream cultural reference?'

'It was for a case. You gave me the DVDs, John. I trusted you'd remember.'

'I thought you'd have deleted it.'

'I never delete something that pertains you, John Watson', Sherlock declared, sternly.

John knew his delighted smile was only incentivising Sherlock further, but he didn't make an effort to wipe it off his face all the same.

It finally occurred to the incredible genius that he was terrible at using words to make John feel better, nevermind conveying the depths of his feelings. He'd have to rely on cold hard evidence, instead. The type that always served Sherlock's own rational mind so faithfully. So, he finally followed his own instincts when it came to telling John all he couldn't fit into words.

He kissed him. A desperate, bruising kiss, underlaid with questions and doubts, more performative and exploratory than the first, as Sherlock catalogued every single nuance of John's physiological answers. His blood pressure, the temperature of his skin, the silky strand of hair where he weaved his fingers.

John let him, knowing full well this kiss was full of questions. John was alright with it. He didn't mind it, really. John would stay there, kissing Sherlock till next week come, if that could allay both their inner fears, keep them safe in each other's embrace as the world came crashing around them.

If a kiss could convey a message back to Sherlock, it'd be that John wanted to never let go.

 _ **.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Beware, this is the odd version where Sherlock and John try to love each other. If it's not your thing, I can't blame you (but Mrs Turner next door has got married ones). Just bypass this one, I'll probably keep updating different collections._

 _And yes, I envision their love as perhaps a bit obsessive at times, but if not consuming, what's the literary point of it?_

 _Disclaimer: still not British, a writer, or a good romantic. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

The cases continued, of course they did. How could they not? The unpredictable danger and excitement in the brink of life or death situations made both Sherlock and John's blood flow in their veins, their days coming alive and becoming truly meaningful. The Baker Street's cases were now so much a part of the consulting duo that they no longer fed their need for danger, but they defined the core of the two friends, colleagues, partners themselves.

What they had now – whatever their undefined relationship could dare to be – was not a substitution of their previous interaction. The debuting relationship was built successfully on top of solid foundations, the ones neither would dare to change so fast.

With an uncommon shyness to both of them, the enigmatic distant detective and the grumpy selfless soldier were doing their best with the cards being dealt. Each waiting for the other to take charge of the next step, and responsibility for the endeavour.

There were kisses and light pecks, often. By John's request, they didn't yet happen in public. And by Sherlock's demand, they didn't happen during the cases, lest he'd become distracted. And John was delightfully distracting, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

The more the detective got lost in the whirlwinds and upturns of fate, the more John seemed quiet and patient. Sherlock didn't quite understand this reaction but in an almost superstitious sort of manner he didn't bring it up. Better not to spoil the unstable equilibrium between the two of them, for the love between two damaged persons was perhaps too unstable to handle the added pressure.

Perhaps they were playing it safe, too safe. A slow burning that could defeat the purpose for being too insipid for the danger loving duo. Perhaps Life would intervene and set them straight.

 _ **.**_

Lestrade had done his part, remarkably well, Sherlock recognised in a quiet part of his mind. The case Scotland Yard had reserved for the Baker Street's duo was weird, dangerous and unpredictable. Soon Sherlock had gasped in epiphany and rushed out of the crime scene, with John loyally keeping up on his shadow, leaving behind a clueless and disgruntled detective inspector with no chance to catch up.

Now, not even a couple of hours later, the idiotic bomber had unknowingly tilted the the power balance, and perhaps changed the two men's dynamics from then on.

The two friends had been tied together, that had been an inconvenience. The two friends had been left to die, that had been expected, dull, predictable. Sherlock had disarmed the bomb using only his toes to extract the red wire from the bundle of multicoloured wires, that had been lucky. John had missed Sherlock's heroism because he had passed out – that was downright unacceptable.

Sherlock walked out of the warehouse as the first rescuers and Yarders were coming in, sirens blaring in the background, dark smoke blowing from the derelict structure. In the detective's arms the slack figure of a small-statured, blonde army captain. The tall man in the imposing coat kept walking, as the first paramedics rushed past him into the building. Sherlock knew they'd find no work for them there, John had been in control of the gun after all. Sherlock went on even as Greg tried reasoning with him, shouting, pleading, waving his arms about and finally telling Sally Sherlock was in shock, and they'd better leave him a while.

Sherlock carried on until he found a small quiet clearing in the grounds outside and there, in the shambles of a garden, he laid down the broken body of the man he needed, on the overgrown lawn.

 _He needed John._

Sherlock took a soft hand to John's face and tapped the clammy skin lightly to rouse him.

'John Watson, you better wake up now and release me from this boring existence without you!'

Somewhere under his closed eyelids, the doctors' eyes moved, as he started to regain consciousness.

Sherlock realised he hadn't been breathing and resumed that trite exercise in John's honour. John had said breathing wasn't boring, he'd be happy if he saw Sherlock had been listening.

'Wake up, John!'

There was no blood loss, no poison, no obvious reason for John passing out. Except that they had been on assignment for four days nonstop, and Sherlock's own transport was reaching its limits. John's had reached his first. John had passed out in an effort to conserve energy. John was full of good old fashioned common sense like that. _John might yet survive his partnership with Sherlock Holmes._

 _Or downright outlive him._

And speaking of living, John was returning to the obvious outward signs of consciousness. Sherlock was humbly grateful, as his guilt abated to a background, nagging and persistent sensation.

John's breathing had hastened and he finally opened his eyes with a gasp. There wouldn't have been much to it, hadn't John looked straight at Sherlock, who was kneeling, frazzled-looking by his side. Then John did the unthinkable – he smiled to reassure his mad partner.

That was so John-like; that being hurt and broken on a damp patch of overgrown grass his first thought would be directed at reassuring his detective.

Sherlock, on the other hand, would have said something cunning, clever, slightly sharp. He really would have. If he hadn't lost the power of coherent speech. His eyes moistened, his ears were ringing, his heart seemed to have impossibly risen up to beat in his throat. All the things he could, he would, have said were muddled in the confinements of his tight ribcage.

'Sherlock, it's alright', John whispered, tiredly raising himself from the ground to ease towards the lost child-genius. Sherlock focused on John with a piercing gaze. John just touched his arm. His grip was steady, strong, warm, yet paradoxically soft.

The lanky genius hurriedly shook his head. Angry at himself for not keeping his cool, because John could see right through him, _John always could_ , he should be the strong one right now, not the other way round.

John smiled just like a great compliment or honour had been paid to him. And the man had probably excused himself off a purple heart for his military service, so he was not foreign to high honours.

'Come here, you...' John trailed off as he pulled the genius into a tight hug. A warm, comforting, understanding embrace. Showing implicitly to the genius that between them words were superfluous, their understanding ran deeper than what the English language could attempt to expound.

Sherlock finally relented, fractionally, allowing selected muscles to relax under John's touch. Consciously, he pretended that he gave in; that he was no longer anxious, scared, tainted by the experience.

'I can tell when you are acting, Sherlock', John warned him, with a smirk. Both his voice and expression muffled by the detective's shirt, without ever relenting the healing embrace.

'Oh.' Sherlock all but admitted it, before he pulled himself together. 'I don't know what you are talking about', he hastily added.

His first words returned, a lie to keep appearances. He flinched as he realised lying to John could ever have been his default setting.

Again, John was wisely listening beyond the spoken words.

'We are going to get up, go talk to Lestrade and in less than two minutes you'll have gotten us a cab back home. Can you do that, Sherlock?'

The detective nodded, so he didn't have to speak again.

'And before that', he army captain kept taking the lead, 'you are going to hug me back. It's bloody lonely to hug someone you're in love with without them returning it.'

Sherlock's arms flew up instantaneously, instinctively.

Finally something gave in. Sherlock took a deeper breath, lowering his head to the crook of John's neck, inhaling the soft smell of warm skin, rainy London and tea. His shoulder released the built-up tension and his hug grew stronger, just to the edge of the right side of comfortable.

'I'm sorry, John', again the words left him of their own accord. Feelings poured from Sherlock's carefully built barriers, breached by John. Snatches of melodies invading his spirit, yet leaving him extremely focused as if they represented all the superfluous, distracting emotions flowed away from him, Sherlock feeling more grounded than ever by the strong arms of his doctor.

'Don't be sorry, ever. My choice, remember? You could never keep me from following you, Sherlock.'

'I did that once.' _Reichenbach_.

'And what a bloody mistake that was', John said humouredly, chuckling along.

Apparently the army doctor could joke about it now.

Sherlock redoubled the strength of the embrace, right over that edge, away from comfort. John didn't complain, however. He just returned the favour till the genius got himself under control.

'You need to be more careful, John.'

'Same to you, Sherlock... And, by the way, how come the bomb didn't go off?' John broke apart at last, not quite pushing Sherlock away. The detective looked over the other man, checking his status and state of mind. John looked confused, but naïve as well, waiting for Sherlock's account on how he had save them. The detective's heart grew stronger. John obviously guessed he had, indeed, saved them. It had seemed something so trivial for Sherlock to do up until John had noticed.

Sherlock could have lost _that_ forever, and that realisation, more than revenge on the bombers or solving the case they were chasing, consumed Sherlock instantly. It would be a nagging fear of loss that wouldn't leave the genius easily from them on.

 _He needed to ensure John outlived him_ ; Sherlock wouldn't want to go on without him.

So Sherlock finally gave in to the instinct. Even though he could hear the detective inspector's rushed footsteps coming closer (and calling out worriedly for the both of them; he must have found the dead bodies John had so magnificently produced by now), Sherlock threw caution, image and any care left to the wind. He looked deeply into the cobalt blue eyes of his doctor and seeing only amused understanding in them he followed the lead, kissing John at last.

In the back of his mind he could sense, but not register, Greg's sudden halt, the Yarders unconcealed interest in their public display of affection, the smokiness of the torn up building and the clatter of an incoming ambulance. It was little commotion to ruin the much adjourned moment and the pair stuck to their kiss; the hell with the aftermath.

 _ **.**_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I'd entitle this one "The Purloined Jumper" if it needed a title; I just love the word Purloin. It doesn't get used enough nowadays._

 _Still not British, a writer, or a romantic. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

Sherlock had always been secretly fascinated by John's jumpers. The vast, multicoloured array of out-of-fashion, baggy, alarmingly ugly jumpers.

They seemed oddly out of place in his brave doctor, loyal soldier, and empathetic friend. Like the type of choice one does when one has something to hide and is trying to misdirect other people's attention.

Did John intimately believe he still had something to hide from Sherlock Holmes? _Sweet John could be so naïve on occasion._

Lately their once professional relationship had drastically taken a turn. They had kissed, releasing a deep tide of repressed emotions along with the endorphins shared in a few tentative moments of deeper connection.

And, somehow, the deeply selfish detective believed he now owned John Watson's secrets; or at least a right to pursue them.

John hadn't directly opposed him yet. John would face Sherlock's curiosity pursuits with coy affection.

For a soldier trained for drastic measures and decisive action in battle, John was horrendously shy when it came to their new relationship.

Not Sherlock, no. He'd lead his innocent love to the depths of hell and back, if he thought John could enjoy the thrill. He'd garner the sun and bring it down to earth if John felt cold; he'd—

 _Cold_. Would that be the answer to John's addiction to jumpers? Being in long deployment in Afghanistan before returning to London, then fighting for his life with a dramatic post-gunshot infection.

Upon John's return to civilian life, and just before he met Sherlock, John had found his love of jumpers. They came in all sizes, shapes and colours, possibly all hand-me-downs or bought at some charity shop. Most didn't even fit John decently. That adorable oatmeal wool one, John had to roll his sleeves at the wrists. John had broad shoulders, after all, the kind a soldier has when all his life he's carried the weight of the world in them.

The stripes one was a frank improvement, Sherlock had to admit. Closer to John's frame and size, its black and white stripes a classic contrast with the doctor's blue eyes and blondish hair. Made him look young, naïve, boyish; less tainted by life's struggles.

Sherlock grudgingly put down his flatmate's striped jumper back in the chest of drawers. Instead, he took up a soft, thin, deep blue jumper. John had only worn that one a couple of times on special occasions, as if part of himself believed it was too good, should be preserved. Sherlock shook his head. That shade of blue was indecently deadly in the former soldier, made his eyes out to be deep pools of expression. Sherlock put that garment down with superstitious caution.

What he actually took out of John's chest of drawers was a ratty brown jumper that was too many washes into an early grave, had loose fibers all through the elbows, fraying cuffs and a single speck of iodine in the hem (that must be Sherlock's science experiments' iodine, doctors don't use iodine to disinfect wounds anymore).

Still suspicious, Sherlock brought it up to his cheek and deeply inhaled the lingering scent. It invoked memories of tea, medical grade disinfectant and a hint of gunpowder. Honestly, most people had not properly trained their olfactory sense; if they had, John would be given his rightful dangerous soldier credits. John positively reeked of gunpowder everytime they came back to the flat after pursuing a criminal. But no one ever sniffed John. _On second thought, Sherlock didn't want anyone else sniffing his John._ People just seemed to assume the doctor was harmless. Their mistake.

Sherlock looked down on the jumper with surprised approval. _That one would do._

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, they didn't have—' Stop. Skip. Beat. 'Is that my jumper?' Alarming high pitch, John really should monitor his blood pressure at times like these. Likely the blood pressure spikes were unhealthy in the long run.

The detective stood hoovering, leaning over the kitchen table, where John's hideous jumper lay on a dissecting tray. Instruments were lined up by the tray, as were a multitude of bottles with liquids and powders, unlabelled _("health and safety, remember what happened last time, Sherlock?" but Sherlock knew them all by heart, and hardly ever made a mistake; hardly)_.

Languidly bored, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the stern soldier standing by the kitchen door with a bag of groceries in his hand. Wasting himself with the everyday chores, that was a mistake Sherlock wasn't likely to commit.

He decided John wasn't as angry as usual, this exchange was becoming a pantomimed exercise, essential between them. John was indulgently curious, holding on to a façade by sheer stubbornness, habit, or that same love of mediocrity Sherlock decried.

Sherlock focused on the important part. John was softening, endeared to the mad scientist.

'Of course it's one of yours, John, I got it from your drawers.' Then acting all serious he added as an afterthought: 'Unless you do jumpers parties with other people, lending each other the most hideous jumpers, do you?'

That was enough to derail John's anger. He looked confused, bordering on exhausted.

'Of course not, it's a bloody sweater! Just a sweater.'

'My point exactly, it's just a sweater', Sherlock jumped at the chance given. 'Please make sure to remember that at the end of this experiment.'

John's exasperation came out as a supressed whimper.

'I'm not even going to ask...' he said, dramatically, waving his hand off, and moving up to his bedroom upstairs. Not one of his favourite jumpers, then, or John had easily admitted to himself that this particular garment was past its due date. John left the groceries behind at the edge of the kitchen, as if he daren't go in. 'There's milk in the shopping bags, if you'd care to put it away, Sherlock...' he trailed off from the stairwell.

Sherlock shrugged. He didn't need milk for this experiment. John was just teasing him now...

 _ **.**_

John came downstairs in the middle of the night, shuffling his feet and breathing shallowly. Another nightmare, wasn't his damaged mind really pulling a number on him this week...

Luckily Sherlock seemed to be his usual genius-like persona, all self-absorbed and overbearing. He probably wouldn't notice John's dark sunken eyes in the morning, the drag under his sleep deprived voice, the sluggishness of his thought processes. He'd just assume John was being lazy, for the sake of it. Seriously, Sherlock could be extremely inattentive for a detective, at times. Leaving John an exhausted one-up on the crazy flatmate every once in a while.

Of course Sherlock could be faking it. He could read John like a book most days of the week ending with a Y. He could feel awkward to strike up a conversation or he could be just trying to give John space...

 _Nah_. This was Sherlock. The un-socialised genius didn't do politeness.

He just squeezed John to his physical limit in the cases, and the extent of his emotional reserves in their relationship.

With a tired sigh, John put away the milk bottles in the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table, eyes lost in the distance between the sea-coloured assortment of wall tiles across from him.

A small smile came bravely to John's lips. Those tiles reminded him of Sherlock's eyes, but none came even close to describing the detective's colour. It was changeable, it was a mirror of Sherlock's hidden emotions, a raw filter to the man's heart and soul.

The memory of his love calmed John's straining, reeling mind, refocusing it at last.

Finally John's reddened, itchy eyes trailed down on his dissected jumper; _for what else would he call the butchered garment lying on the table?_ It was pierced, on several places, by fist sized holes with clean edges.

 _What was the point of turning his jumper into Swiss cheese?_ John sighed. At least it had been an old one, over worn and fighting a losing battle with the washing machine, about to be retired.

John decided he shared a flat with the world's weirdest flatmate, and his boyfriend was an inconsiderate git with a lot of explaining to do. He binned the damaged jumper with supressed anger, and headed back upstairs.

The only reason he didn't barge into Sherlock's room, right then and there, to tell him off, was the fact that Sherlock had unwittingly distracted him from his nightmare experience, and John was grateful for that.

And that Sherlock never really slept enough and John was loathsome to be the one disturbing his much needed rest.

Well, _those_ and the fact that it caught him off-guard how he was unashamedly ready to barge into Sherlock's room.

 _ **.**_

Sherlock was the first to get up in the morning. He was unsurprised as he saw that the kitchen table was emptied of the test subject jumper. One of the chairs had been moved since yesterday, left jutting out from the table by about ten inches, skewed sideways on an angle consistent with a left-handed person, as John often did when in anger. A mild-mannered John was a bit of an OCD wannabe and left chairs perfectly aligned with tables.

Another nightmare filled night for John, then. Maybe Sherlock hadn't been pushing him hard enough, tiring him enough so that his mind too could rest in peace at night.

Sherlock made a mental note to revisit some solved-but-not-announced-cases he still had up his sleeve just for these occasions. There might be a potential chase or two in them, just what the doctor needed.

With a worry he'd try to bite down, Sherlock approached the kitchen bin and stepped on the pedal. There, just like planned.

Sherlock had emptied the bin last night, for the first time ever; Mrs Hudson told him what to do with the bag formerly in place, so he could slide a new, clean one in.

In the first morning lights, Sherlock, alone in the cold kitchen, rescued John Watson's jumper. He smelled it. Tea, gunpowder, and rain. All the lingering scents that compose John's olfactory richness were still there.

Sherlock smirked. John dismissed the jumper, binned it even, he could not now oppose that Sherlock kept his discarded property. And he wouldn't know it either.

It's a long and windy road to understanding why Sherlock didn't just purloin the jumper from John's chest of drawers and appropriated it. The doctor would have probably assumed he had already thrown away the tattered sweater. _Oh, no, this was much better according to Sherlock._ John had renounced his property. Sherlock was claiming it, heroically rescuing it from the waste.

Sherlock would hold on to _everything_ _John_ if he only could.

With a careful glance to the kitchen's doors and noting the stillness and quietness of the flat, plus secure in the knowledge that John was in for a late morning due to his irregular sleeping patterns of late, Sherlock embraced the jumper and snuggled it closer.

Because John was asleep, in a much needed rest, and Sherlock was just human, and he needed to summon John's presence, just for a few longing minutes.

He closed his eyes, hoping his ever-racing mind could relax at John's conjured proximity.

Instead, his mind supplied an estimate of three hours forty-seven minutes for John to wake up.

Knowing his madness, but surrendering sweetly to its toxic allure, Sherlock tried on the jumper, John's jumper, immersing himself in the lingering scent.

Broad shoulders, short sleeves. The multi-holed jumper is tight and ridiculous, and so close to John Sherlock that would never need to feel lonely again.

 _Just for a little bit_ , he fooled himself into thinking.

 _ **.**_

'Sherlock, are you alright?' the gaunt-faced blogger asked, whisks of water vapour flowing upwards from his tea mug, gently disguising his features. 'You are very jittery today.'

'No, I'm not!' Sherlock answered. Too fast. Too jittery.

'You really are. Even for your standards...' John commented with some concern. 'You know if there's something you need to talk about—'

'No.'

'And why do you keep scratching your arm? Did you get bitten by a flea, or something?'

'I'm absolutely fine, John!'

The doctor recognised the slight panic in his detective's voice at once. With minimal cursing, he set aside his mug and got to the chase at once. 'Show me your arm, Sherlock.'

'No.'

'I really want to see it.'

Sherlock smirked. 'You'll need to take me on a date first.'

John giggled at once. 'Okay, that can be arranged', he asserted, quite serious. The two men stared quietly into each others' eyes, almost losing the conversation thread.

'Take off your dressing gown, Sherlock.'

'Why?'

'Because there's something you're not showing me. Because I'm worried. Because – _please_.'

Sherlock blinked. He wasn't immune to John's pleads. The strong, selfless soldier that never asked from Sherlock anything for himself, when all of Sherlock's life he had been used – his gifts, his intelligence, his wits, his body – by just about everyone he ever met, till he had no choice but to close himself off, keep everyone at bay. John, on the other hand, was special. He always gave and hardly ever demanded.

So Sherlock found himself sliding off his silky dressing gown.

'Okay, what are those?'

Red patches on Sherlock's skin stood out for miles to anyone, let alone one truly protective doctor.

Sherlock blushed and looked away.

'Sherlock, there's something you're not telling me.'

'Always, John', Sherlock smirked. His controlled restored for a fraction of time. Then he realised his mistake. John's eyes bore into his with an honest plead; _let me help you._

 _Always, John._

Grumpily, Sherlock hinted: 'Chemical burns, from the calcium hydroxide. I miscalculated.'

John looked over at the empty kitchen table, then at the bin, and by the time he refocused on Sherlock's sea green eyes, his own cobalt blue were brimming with contained amusement.

'You daft thing, you didn't—!'

'Put the jumper on?' Sherlock admitted it with a nod. 'You are even shorter than I give you credit for, offset by a military stance.'

'Oi!' John warned, without bite. 'You know you could have just asked...'

 _Oh_. Actually Sherlock hadn't thought of that. John, willingly providing Sherlock a piece of garment for him to hang on to, like a homesick puppy...

'It was for science', he defended.

'Yes', John pretended to agree, eyes crinkling from contained amusement, 'I saw the jumper dissection on the table.'

'And then I felt cold. Unfortunately I got carried away and forgot the use of an irritant such as calcium hydroxide. It was, however, invaluable when it came to create the holes.'

'And why make holes in it? A new fashion style? In keeping with the young folk?'

'My sense of fashion is much more guided than yours.'

John just shook his head, not buying it for one second. With a satisfied sigh he guided on: 'Get that t-shirt off you. We'll get you on the shower to wash off the chemical residue, then I'll dab some ointment to relieve the itchiness and that should make it all better... You daft thing, next time just help yourself to my clothes, and put them back without poking massive holes in them, will ya?'

Meekly, Sherlock nodded.

He'll keep it from John that he still feels it was a success. John just keeps calling him a git, _a loveable git_ , as he lovingly tends to his mad scientist. Sherlock just chuckles along.

 _ **.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Nothing new to declare, sorry. -csf_

* * *

 _ **.**_

 _"Anything on the house, Sherlock, for you and your date."_

 _"I'm not his date!"_

Well, well. Now he was. John Watson knew it was time to eat his own words. The menu consisted of Italian food, but tonight, John was about to digest his own earlier rebuttals.

Of course John hadn't been Sherlock's date, on a romantic level, not back then, strictly speaking. That was an important distinction the blogger would insist upon, with whatever knack for words he had garnered during his literary essays about his and Sherlock's mad crime solving.

 _He was now._

 _Sherlock's date._

Hadn't that come as a surprise! John had been completely caught off-guard when Sherlock had brought it up.

 _ **.**_

Elbows deep in some criminal's blood – well, no, John hadn't shot him, not this one, John didn't shoot all criminals that threatened Sherlock's life, just the majority of them – that had clumsily fallen off a slippery rooftop during one of their chases along London's urban landscapes. Sherlock had leaned in to obediently put pressure on the criminal's gashing wound when he had blurted:

'Dinner at Angelo's after this, John? My treat.'

John had dumbly assumed that, for once in his life, the detective was hungry.

'Yeah', he had agreed, dismissively.

'In twenty to thirty minutes, depending on the ambulance's time of arrival and Lestrade's desire to hit the pub at the end of his working hours he'll already be exceeding for me?'

'What? Yeah, whatever, Sherlock. This man is bleeding out, I'm a little busy here...'

'Okay. Then that's our first date arranged. Now for a second, what do you think of Thursday at seven o'clock at the London's Eye?'

John had just blinked and stopped addressing the criminal's secondary wounds altogether. _Not John's best attribute, multitasking._

'Are you... Have you organised a series of dates for us, Sherlock?' John had tried to understand.

'Yes, of course. Saves us time. Speaking of which, I will hereby assume you agree to them all in principle, and in bulk, John. Sparing you the trouble of going through the list.'

'What? _No!_ Sherlock, one date at a time, don't rush it, let us savour it.'

Sherlock had looked entirely put off, but had agreed for John's sake. 'If you must.'

'I must!' John had grunted back. At which point the criminal had moaned in pain and Sherlock snapped at him:

'Next time don't take the ambassador's pink rubber duck and you'll be spared of listening to us and of a compound fractured rib too.'

And John had just smirked. 'Yeah, you heard my date!'

Sherlock's eyes had been as giant as full moons as he had tenderly watched his love save yet another life.

 _ **.**_

'You look exceedingly... dreamily tonight, John. Am I... _boring_ you?' Sherlock asked, pretending to pay attention to some invisible water mark in the rim of his glass. Around them, Angelo's was busy as always, and every new customer coming in would longingly eye the best table in the house, where Sherlock and John sat tonight.

John could have been bored, in fact, when Sherlock had launched into a description of different tea stain in mugs according to the temperature of the boiled water when the tea had been prepared. With John, however, the tea stains were always religiously perfect; much like the tea, the detective could have added. Hence, Sherlock had recently spent a while working undercover at a well known cafe chain, where tea making was notoriously inconsistent.

Not that John could get bored easily with Sherlock. Even through the flattest description of moulds, John maintained some degree of amazement and reverence to Sherlock's incredible work, and the love and time dispensed to it. Witnessing the scientist-detective's love of pursuing this gifts was always awe striking for his blogger.

John was now part of Sherlock's work, so he was now equally loved and awarded time and attention, and John revelled in his importance in the detective's life. Being this, that they were now, only added a new layer to their strong dynamics, and John was eager to explore the new nuances that could come of a more intimate knowledge of the most difficult, overbearing and distant man he knew.

'I'm fine, Sherlock', the blond-grey haired man assured, calmly. 'I'm... _happy_. I haven't felt happy in a long while, that's all, I'm just a bit _amazed_.'

Sherlock leaned back on his chair. John's love of tea was legendary, if it extended that easily to tea stains and consulting detectives who wrote detailed blog entries on them.

'Good', Sherlock said, losing his foot a little at that. He'd disguise it, though, with practised ease, by launching himself into a monologue description of the cumulative laxative effect of popular artificial sweeteners.

John leaned back on his chair, a stubborn smile still on his lips, as he watched his mad detective. In fairness, John's attention was raptured by Sherlock's perfect lips and expressive eyebrows as the taller man vividly explained the details of his knowledge. Close by, some ordinary couple was a bit put off, sending them death stares at shorter and shorter intervals. Apparently laxatives were not a welcome eavesdropping theme at their dinner table.

'Keep going', John nudged on as Sherlock first took notice of the intrusive hatred of the uptight couple nearby. The woman was overly produced and her plush form hardly covered by her attire, the man had a thick set of muscles and the tired stance of a disillusioned old man.

Sherlock frowned on them and turned back to his expectant partner:

'...the bed sheet stains clearly indicated...'

What was Sherlock on about? John asked himself with a mental shrug. He had zoned out, lured by the detective's deep throaty voice that seemed to reverberate out of his rib cage and John could feel each word as if they tingled down his spine.

No, John was most certainly imagining it.

'...and when the Scotland Yard next came to the scene, I had successfully extricated– _Seriously, John, you are not listening to me!'_

The smaller man came back with a small start. 'What? Oh, no, Sherlock, I just–' John reached put to Sherlock's hand over the table cloth, and squeezed it tenderly. 'I was just noticing–'

The couple decided on that precise moment to get up from their tables and give the detective and blogger a gelid stare, accusing them of a ruined meal.

John's hand, the one in contact with the only person who could have instantly calmed him, slackened as the doctor's blue eyes dimmed.

'John, what is it?' Sherlock demanded, looking around. No criminals, no threats around. Well, none that John would need to know. Two counterfeiters, one fraudster (identity theft) and a convicted burglar (Angelo himself). Certainly none would cause such an abrupt pause in John's usually steady demeanour.

The soldier got on his feet, still death staring over Sherlock's shoulder. The detective got up at once, just the same. He'd join John in any fight, regardless of not knowing what – the hell – was going on.

'John?' Sherlock asked quietly for context. Sherlock had never enjoyed not knowing, and that uneasiness hadn't subsided with his chosen profession either.

The now fuming soldier squared his shoulders and shouted, authoritarian, to the bulky, thick-headed man: 'You and me, outside, we can settle our scores the old fashioned way.'

Sherlock blinked. John wanted a fight. He was currently picking up a fight with a man two feet taller and another eider than him. Sherlock suspected John was somehow protecting their honour. And it made Sherlock smile involuntarily. Sweet John, always so ready to protect Sherlock.

'John, it's okay', the detective intervened. He read the scene in less than 0.7 seconds, with his observational skills. It touched Sherlock, John's protection, but really it was not necessary that the night ended with some blood letting over Sherlock and John's reputation. People always talk, rarely do they know what they are talking about.

Was this normal procedure when two people started a relationship? Well, in fairness, John had always acted this way before. He had even punched the chief superintendent one evening, and the philharmonic orchestra conductor one morning (the two incidents were not related).

'Why wait?' the man muttered and swung a heavy punch John's way. The smaller doctor was caught unaware, but not enough that he wouldn't swerve sharply to avoid being hit, in a movement that most men half his age would not execute, let alone so fluidly. And, in an extreme energy economy, John grabbed the man's shirt and tipped him off-balance instead. The offensive man seemed to have been flung against the dinner table in front of him, crashing over its surface, spilling the doctor's drink and food, and then rolling off over the edge to the floor, where he landed with a dull thump. Sherlock glanced at the standing hero, then lowered himself to grab the defeated bully by his shirt collar – cheap cologne, halitosis, early signs of hypertension; _and_ _oh, how could he have not seen it?_ – as John was tranquilly frowning over the man, pursing his lips over the fuss created. Sherlock clasped on handcuffs from his coat pocket, around the man's wrists.

'Scotland Yard will be pleased you caught them the Solstice serial killer, John!'

The good doctor just nodded, blankly.

'Ugh ...Sherlock?'

'Yes, John, he's a criminal. Although trying to punch you would have naturally sufficed.'

'No, ugh, I mean... Do you always carry around handcuffs? I thought we were on a date!' he shyly hissed those last words, leaning forward, so that the words would remain between them. He even glanced at the other customers, uncomfortable.

Sherlock looked to John, absolutely puzzled. 'Timing?' he guessed, tentatively.

'Appropriateness, more like it', John said, without bite, and sighed.

Finally alerted, Angelo came rushing through the crowd of murmuring customers, gaping curiously from their seats. 'Oh, my goodness, what is this? Ah, John, what is this?'

At the mention of his thickly accented name – sounding more like Jo-on – the doctor blushed.

'I'm really sorry, Angelo, we–'

'Is this man bothering you? Ah, this is not acceptable! You are my dearest customers. Anything you want, on the house', he faced the cuffed criminal on the floor. 'This is Sherlock's date. You cannot mistreat Sherlock's date!'

John's head dropped till his chin hit his chest. Right. Because somewhere at the far end of the restaurant there could have been one last person who hadn't noticed the date, Angelo.

The furious restaurant owner manhandled the customer off the floor himself. Ready to throw him to the alley behind the restaurant, it'd seem, by the force with which he was being dragged into the restricted kitchen area.

John blinked, then smirked, amused. Sherlock, of course, was still studying him carefully, as John returned to almost absolute calm with the ease of a man used to live by the detective's side: 'So, Sherlock, tell me, what did he do? Shall I call Lestrade and tell him we got another one?'

Sherlock nodded. 'You'd better. His accomplice, the woman he was having dinner with, is walking out the door. We'll need to catch her. Be careful, John, she's carrying a gun. You've brought your Browning, right?'

John just stood very still, very red. 'Ugh, no, I didn't.'

'It was a date?' Sherlock asked tentatively, in a complete guess.

John nodded, speechless. Sherlock rolled his eyes, this time round. It was _their_ date, _the unexpected was a plausible possibility after all!_

They rushed out the door, leaving behind Angelo in charge of the apprehended criminal and the lecturing over Sherlock's date's ruined dinner.

And, despite all the turbulence, this was John's best dinner date ever, he knew, as he faithfully followed Sherlock around the dark alleyways and dangerously high rooftops of London.

 _ **.**_


End file.
